


Double or No Thing

by Emilybells



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aberdeen, Gen, Genital Mutilation, Las Vegas, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Nudity, casino - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2468384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emilybells/pseuds/Emilybells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are whisked away to a casino across Britain to hunt down a serial killer determined to hurt business - but business isn’t the only thing she’s willing to hurt if one were to make the mistake of inviting her to bed. Meanwhile, John is apparently recovering from a broken heart by attempting to hook up with every third girl he comes across. (Pre-season 3.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The weeks following John's most recent breakup dragged on slowly for the residents of 221B Baker Street. John Watson fell back into his regular day-to-day routine, but he did so without emotion and generally kept to himself. Each morning the man would make himself and Sherlock a cup of coffee, yet hardly speak two words to his uneasy flatmate whilst flipping through a newspaper.

John came to feel as if he were watching the world around him in black and white. Life went on without Lilith - Scotland Yard went back to what they did best, Sherlock had his experiments to keep himself company, there were constantly still groceries to be bought and laundry to be done - but John’s wounds had gone deep and had yet to fully heal. Now everything looked a grayish color to him; even things that he used to particularly enjoy.

Finally Sherlock decided that he had had enough of this bullshittery. One morning he abruptly shattered the dull sameness of his companion’s schedule by slapping a pair of plane tickets down upon the table in front of him. John looked up, blinking in surprise. “What’s this?” he demanded.

“Must I spell it out for you?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, all right. They’re airfare tickets. To Aberdeen.”

“Aberdeen? But that’s at the other end of Britain! What’s in Aberdeen?”

“Fresh air?”

John frowned. “Fresher than London’s?”

“Arguably. I also happen to know a man who lives in Aberdeen, goes by the name of Archie Linderman. Owns a casino up there. I figured you might want to check it out, what with… well, everything that happened regarding the L-word.” Sherlock leaned forward across the table, beaming. He’d known from experience that John was not an easy man to cheer up when he got like this, but after so much time he felt obligated to step in in any way that he could.

Chewing on the bottom of his lip, John fought back the urge to break down again at the mention of his ex. “So… let me get this straight: you want me to fly to Aberdeen with you… to visit a casino?”

“Not just any casino,” Sherlock clarified. “Linderman’s casino. We go way back. Plus, it’s got drinks and bright lights and music that’s so loud it makes your ears bleed and those skimpy girls wearing themed costumes that hardly cover up more than a Band-Aid would!” Noticing John was no longer making eye contact with him, Sherlock pulled away John’s coffee mug to be sure that he was paying attention. “You’re into that sort of thing, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” John sighed.

“Not to mention it comes with a case - serial killer trying to ruin Linderman’s business and we get to be the ones to stop it! Two-for-one packaged deal!” Sherlock exclaimed enthusiastically, jumping up to bop John across the head with the tickets.

John folded his paper, smirking. “Knew there was something more to it.”

“Hurry up and get your stuff packed,” the detective called out from the other room, searching for his suitcase. “Our flight leaves at noon. Unless you’d prefer to rent a vehicle, of course, but the last thing I want right now is to be stuck in a car with you moping for nine hours!”

-x-

Sherlock and John had never flown together before that day, which turned out to be quite the experience. Getting past security proved to be challenging enough: Sherlock accidentally set off the metal detector and his smart mouthing the guards as they searched him hardly seemed to speed up the process. After what seemed like ages of standing through long lines, having their bags checked, and John being forced to throw out a container of his favorite Dual Action Deep-Root Shampoo and Conditioner, the pair ended up waiting in the airport for an additional hour before being allowed to board.

Fighting the other passengers for their seats, John claimed a spot by the window as Sherlock began shoving their luggage into the overhead compartment. Once that was taken care of they settled down and the seat belt light flickered on. The giant hunk of metal departed shortly after, unpleasantly bumpy at first, but quickly evening out as it took to the sky.

"Might either of you be interested in anything to drink?" a red-haired stewardess offered, her firetruck red lips pressed together. “We have a lovely wine list.”

John looked as if he were going out of his way to avoid eye contact with the woman. He waved her away with his hand. ”Um, no. Thanks. N-Nothing for us.”

The stewardess nodded and moved along to the next row. Sherlock immediately smacked John’s arm with the back of his hand. “What the hell was that? Lilith’s gone! You can’t feel bad about speaking with another girl, especially now!” He huffed, turning to face the aisle next to him. “If ever there were an appropriate time for some innocent flirting on your behalf, this is when it would be most welcomed.”

"Are you seriously suggesting that I play a 'the love of my life just dumped me’ card only two weeks after the fact?" John looked almost offended.

Sherlock shrugged, his back turned. A bing-bong rang out over the plane’s intercom, announcing the start of the aircraft’s most recent cinema feature. It was a romantic comedy that John had enjoyed on more than one occasion and which Sherlock had unsurprisingly never heard of.

"I have to use the loo," the army doctor announced after the first half hour of traveling. Sherlock acknowledged this by pressing legs up against his chest so that John could squeeze on by.

Some time passed and Sherlock couldn’t help but grow increasingly worried the longer his friend took to return. At first he tried to pass the time by slipping quietly into his mind palace, his fingertips pressed against one another beneath his chin. Unable to concentrate for long, Sherlock eventually grew tired of twiddling his thumbs and set out towards the plane’s rear in search of John.

Sherlock pulled back a curtain and immediately let out a yelp at what he’d walked in on. John stood directly in front of him, the red-haired and now only half-dressed stewardess leaning against the galley’s wall for support. The woman shrieked and began fastening her blazer’s buttons with shaking hands. She then adjusted her name tag and attempted to tame several loose strands of fiery hair. Cheeks flushed, she then slapped John across his face for extra measure and strut back into the passenger area.

Sherlock’s mouth hung slightly ajar as he struggled for words. With a stern look, John stuck a threatening finger out at Sherlock. “Don’t,” he hissed.

“Three continents and the air,” Sherlock couldn’t help but mock. “You’ll have to change your nickname if you keep this pace up.”

-x-

The remainder of the flight was relatively uneventful. It was already dark by the time Sherlock and John landed in Aberdeen, where a cab took them to Linderman’s casino, a towering display of neon lights and blaring music. An electronic billboard displaying the building’s title hung just above a spinning glass door entrance.

“Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, I presume?” The tourists turned to spot a dark-skinned man with a tough build. He had a black suit on and was wearing some sort of earpiece.

“Then you’d presume correctly,” Sherlock answered.

“221,” the bulky man said as he handed them each a hotel key, which they stashed away in their respective pockets. “Mr. Linderman does have a sense of humor. Ernesto will bring you up your things.” As he said this, a smallish Mexican man rolling along a hotel trolley appeared from behind them and picked up their luggage bags, tossing them onto his cart before continuing inside. The dark-skinned man continued: “Mr. Linderman predicted that you would be tired after your flight. Rest now and Linderman will see you first thing in the morning.”

“Uh, where and when, exactly, should we expect to meet Mr. Linderman?” John called out to the man who was already following Ernesto indoors.

“You will know when the time comes.”

John shot Sherlock a distrustful look. The detective shrugged and pushed past him, stepping inside the casino and heading straight for the elevators with John in tow.

When they got to room 221 Ernesto was nowhere in sight, but his trolley was parked against the carpeted hallway and still carrying their things. Sherlock slid his cardkey in the lock and it lit up green with a clicking noise. He pushed his way inside to reveal two twin beds, several pieces of matching wooden furniture, and an enormous light bulb-lined mirror taking up nearly half of the opposite wall.

John grabbed a heart-shaped chocolate from off of his pillow, unwrapped and popped it into his mouth, and then began unloading the contents of his leather bag into the nearby dresser. Sherlock threw himself down upon the other bed face-first and lay perfectly still for some time.

“Nice try,” John mused, bopping Sherlock on the back of his head with a pillow. “I haven’t eaten anything since we got to the airport. You’re taking me to dinner first, then I’ll consider letting you doze—”

The doctor had hardly finished his sentence when he was interrupted by a knocking on the door. He hesitated before pulling it open. Just outside was Ernesto, now wheeling a cart filled to the brim with food. “Compliments of Mr. Linderman,” he explained, taking the array inside and then shutting the door behind himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock rapped on the bathroom door with the back of his hand. “John,” he called out. He had to raise his voice in hopes of being heard over the sound of running water. “John, Mr. Linderman is expecting us in twenty minutes.”

His flatmate shouted something back that Sherlock couldn’t quite make out. Sherlock waited patiently as the shower shut off. John emerged from the room moments later, releasing a cloud of steam and wearing a white towel around his waist.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” John asked, scratching at his hair so that drops of water flew out of it.

Sherlock took several steps out of the splash zone. “It’s Linderman. He’s ready for us.”

“Alright. I’ll be ready in a minute.”

-x-

Archie Linderman turned out to be much smaller than John had imagined. He was a short and stout man with dark hair, greased back over his rounded head. Linderman was sitting behind a desk that looked much too big for him when Sherlock and John entered the glass-encased room overlooking the casino’s ground floor. He was in the middle of a conversation via an earpiece. He held up a finger at his guests, instructing them to wait.

"I don’t care if he says he’s the pope! Tell him to collect his winnings and get the hell out of my casino before I change my mind!" Linderman shouted. He paused for a moment before responding: "Yes, two sugars would be lovely. I’ll be in my office." Linderman then pressed a button somewhere around his ear and turned his attention to his guests. "Mr. Holmes! And this must be the friend you mentioned having to babysit."

John made a face. “Dr. John Watson,” he said.

"Mm. Yes, but see, the difference between your name and coffee is that I asked for coffee.”

"And you were actually friends with this guy?" John hissed under his breath.

Sherlock gave a guilty smile. “Friends was a bit of an exaggeration. Uh, Mr. Linderman, you asked me to come to assist you in something?”

"Yes!" Linderman slammed his fist over the desk for effect. "It’s this damned killing spree happening in my casino—my casino, can you believe it? Terrible for business! It’s one of my competitors’ doing, I’m sure of it. I just need the proof.”

"And the killer to be stopped," John chimed in.

"Speak when spoken to, Doctor." Linderman raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "I asked for the best in this field and they gave me your number. I trust you’ll make quick work of the matter?"

"My work would go quicker if I could get a look at one of the crime scenes," Sherlock said.

Linderman scoffed, leaning back in his leather seat. “Are you suggesting that I leave out such a horrendous display for all my guests to see? Absolutely not! When a crime is committed we do our best to cover it up and provide our guests with the reassurance that absolutely nothing is wrong!”

"But something is wrong. And terribly so.”

"Precisely! And that’s why I’ve hired you to stop it! As far as I can tell, the victims have nothing in common with one another except that they are all male and were, up until their unfortunate demise, residents of my hotel."

"Where do you expect me to start if I can’t even have a look at one of the victims?" Sherlock demanded, crossing his arms over his chest.

Linderman shrugged. “If you’re so insistent upon seeing a dead body, one of them’s bound to turn up within the next 24 hours. So far we’ve been having one nearly every night.”

"Every night!" John echoed in disbelief. "And just how long has this been going on before you thought to bring us in?"

"Oh, a week and a half?"

John nearly fell over where he stood. “And it never occurred to you to get the police involved?”

"Oh, no no no! Officials are terrible for business. Look, I’ve instructed my staff to assist you lot in every way possible. Whatever happens next is for you to decide. So if you don’t mind, kindly get the fuck out of my office and start investigating, or whatever the hell it is you private eyes do these days!”

Sherlock and John were then escorted out of the room by two security guards, heavy doors slamming behind them.

"This man is insane," John breathed.

"Even so, if what Mr. Linderman said is true, then we can assume that another man has been murdered during our stay last night. Linderman implied that he knows nothing about this latest incident, but figured the body would be discovered soon enough. What time is room cleaning?"

John blinked. “Um. I don’t know, maybe around ten?”

"That’s too long of a wait to find out." Sherlock shook his head. "John, how do you feel about wearing a dress?"

"How do I—wait, what?”

"Excellent. This way!"

-x-

"I take it back. Mr. Linderman isn’t insane, you are!” John accused. He was currently modelling a black dress with a white apron tied across the front, short hair hidden by a matching bonnet. In front of him John wheeled along a cart filled with cleaning supplies and fresh towels that was made twice as heavy as usual, thanks to Sherlock crouching underneath it, hidden by strategically-draped cloth. “‘Sides, I thought Linderman promised we’d have access to whatever we needed! Is this really necessary?”

"I doubt Mr. Linderman would’ve been okay with us barging into every hotel room searching for a new corpse," Sherlock explained from below him. "Bad for business, don’cha know."

"Easy for you to say. You’re not the one crossdressing!"

“Shh! It defeats the purpose of me hiding if you keep carrying on the conversation,” Sherlock whispered. “Now go knock on that door over there, 47. Just say ‘housekeeping,’ and if you get a response, tell them you’ll come back later.”

John did so. There was only silence from the other side of the door. Sherlock used the maid’s master key he’d stolen and barged in, but there was no dead body, and he quickly realized the owner was just a tourist and had left hours ago to see some local sights. They repeated this process with about one third of the rooms down that hallway and the next, only a handful of them still occupied—John had no idea how Sherlock was choosing doors to attack—until the detective sprung out from under the supply cart, sprinted up to room 161, and pressed his ear against the wood.

“This is the one,” he said.

“What? How do you know?” Sherlock ignored him in favor of rattling the key in the lock and throwing the door open. John reeled back as rank, warm air hit his face. “Oh God, what the hell?”

Sherlock pulled his scarf over his face, John buried his nose in the crook of his elbow, and they both went inside. There was a man gagged and tied spread-eagle to the posts of the bed, naked and covered in blood and obviously deceased. As John approached, he could see the man’s penis had been cleanly severed at the base and was now missing in action. In one corner of the room, a heater was turned up full-blast. Sherlock flicked it off with an annoyed grunt and began poking around the corpse. John just milled about the edges of the room, waving away flies and trying not to clench his thighs together so much.

“Should I be, ah, calling someone?” John asked.

“No need, I’ve already texted Linderman,” Sherlock muttered. “He should be here within five minutes.”

“What?” John stared at his friend in horror. “I’m in a fucking dress!”

Sherlock glanced up and gave John a once-over. “Yes, and you look very pretty?”

John resisted the urge to strangle his flatmate and darted into the dead man’s bathroom. He spotted a robe hanging on the back of the door, reached for it, and paused. “Sherlock, come tell me if this bathrobe is important before I destroy any evidence or something.” Once Sherlock had thoroughly inspected the robe and deemed it useless, John changed out of the maid outfit and tied the bathrobe around himself as securely as possible. When he re-entered the hotel room, the first thing John noticed was that Sherlock had somehow gotten a pair of rubber gloves from God knows where and had his right index finger knuckle-deep in the corpse’s… wound.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Gathering evidence,” Sherlock replied coolly, looking up at John. He wiggled his finger around in the man’s scrotum without even glancing down. “Ooh. Testicular cancer.”

“Stop that, oh my God. Get your finger out of there!” John yelled at him. “That’s disgusting!”

“It’s biology,” Sherlock corrected.

“Did you know in some languages biology directly translates to disgusting?”

Sherlock gave him a puzzled look. “Really? Not in any of the ones I know.” They stared at each other for a full five seconds before Sherlock replied, “Ah, sarcasm. Got it.” He pulled his finger out anyway, threw the gloves in the trash, and was just beginning to examine the corpse’s wrists when there was a knock at the door and Linderman walked in with two hulking cronies.


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh, hell,” Linderman sighed. “Not again.”

“She knew him, but not well,” Sherlock said.

“Who?”

“The murderer.”

Linderman’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “Figured it out already, have you? I’m impressed.”

“Well, not entirely,” Sherlock said, flapping a hand in the casino owner’s direction. “But I nearly have. Ready?”

Linderman blinked in bemusement. “Ready for what?”

“There’s this thing he does,” John said. “He just starts talking and doesn’t stop until he’s—”

The shorter man threw up a hand and said, “Hey. Johnny-boy. Close the yap-hole before I sew it closed.”

Sherlock went on as if they weren’t even in the same room with him. “I looked through his wallet and his name is Mr. Byrne. He has one son and a wife, probably living within city limits, though he isn’t staying with them. Mr. and Mrs. Byrne might be going through a divorce, perhaps, although I think a much likelier option would be Mr. Byrne is ‘on a business trip.’ His briefcase is in the corner, untouched for the entire three days he’s been here, along with a framed picture of said wife and child that Mrs. Byrne likely packed for him, which he has not taken out yet—out of guilt and shame, I imagine, since he obviously came here looking to have an affair. He was tied up… somewhat willingly. There are no signs of struggle outside of rope burns around his wrists and ankles, which means he didn’t start fighting until after he was restrained and she started to cut off his… well.”

Linderman’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “‘She’?”

“Yes, she, the murderer,” Sherlock said impatiently. “A woman would be much less squeamish about male genital mutilation. And I hardly think a middle-aged heterosexual man would invite a boy back to his room and allow him to tie him up, don’t you? If he were having a sexual identity crisis, maybe, but—”

“Pff, of course it’s a woman,” Linderman scoffed. “Ruin everything, they do.”

Sherlock had to close his eyes and count to ten. “Right. Anyway. It looks like she used a standard five-inch non-serrated blade to amputate his penis while he was still erect and left him to bleed to death. This happened sometime late last night, seeing as the heat was still on, despite today’s unusually warm weather—the murderer probably didn’t think to turn it off before she slipped out. She didn’t leave or take anything—besides the severed penis, obviously. I’d need to see more than one victim before I’m sure, but my initial theory is that this woman is attacking men she deems ‘sinners,’ for things such as adultery, as an act of revenge. Not aimed at the victims themselves, of course, but at you and your casino, Mr. Linderman.”

“All very clever, Mr. Holmes, but none of that helps my situation. Are you done yet?”

Sherlock eyed the shorter man up. “Have you given any ladies the wrong impression lately?”

Linderman made a sort of disgusted face. “What? No! I have no idea what you’re talking about! How dare you bring me into this! I’m sure you’ve gotten all the information from here that you need. Now why don’t you scurry off to someplace you’re more likely to prevent this from happening next time!”

Mr. Linderman’s assistants ushered Sherlock and John out of the hotel room, it being only too obvious that they were preparing to sweep the entire place clean of any traces of the dead body and his possessions. “I really don’t like that Linderman fellow,” John told Sherlock. “Promise me that you won’t be letting him get off scot free after we’ve wrapped this thing up.”

"Of course. Meet me in our room after you’ve returned that dress."

-x-

Still wearing a hotel bathrobe, John slipped into the maids’ supply closet to return the neatly folded clothing he had borrowed. It was there that he nearly collided into an unsuspecting Latino woman, who spun around and shrieked.

"Shh! It’s alright, I’ve just come to put something away,” John said. “I promise I won’t be long."

The woman pressed the palm of her hand against her chest and took deep breaths. “No, no, don’t worry about it! You just startled me, that’s all.” She glanced down at the maid outfit in his hands. “Is… is that my uniform?” Before John could answer, she pulled the dress away and unfolded it in front of her with widened eyes. “It is my uniform! I’ve been looking everywhere for this!”

John scratched at the back of his head sheepishly. “Um. Yeah, I uh… found it. Got left out on one of the trolley things and I figured someone might be missing it.”

"Well that’s awfully sweet of you," the girl said. "And next time you want to borrow it, you only have to ask. I’m quite sure it looked much more flattering on you than it ever did for me." She reached out as if to pull open John’s bathrobe, but John quickly wrapped his arms around himself to stop her. The woman smiled innocently and folded the dress over one arm. She then held out her other hand to John, who took it slowly. "I’m Maya."

"Doctor John Watson."

"A doctor, eh?" Maya looked over her shoulder mischievously before leaning in and dropping her voice. "You know, I’ve never gotten it on with a medical professional before."

"That would be a bad idea," a baritone voice said from behind them. Maya and John both turned to see Sherlock standing in the open doorway. "Sorry, have I interrupted something? Oh, dear. I do profoundly apologize."

John clenched his jaw. “Sherlock. Whatever happened to ‘meet you in our room’?”

"Change of plans. I want to take a look downstairs while I still have the master key on me."

"And how do you mean, ‘bad idea’?"

"Isn’t it obvious?" Sherlock looked over at Maya, who gave a little wave by wiggling her fingers. "She is a married woman. To our good friend Ernesto, if I’m not mistaken?"

Maya’s mouth fell open. “How did you…?” She shook her head suddenly. “Never mind; it changes nothing. And you know what they say: two’s company, three’s a crowd and…” Maya winked at Sherlock before finishing her thought, “four’s a party.”

Sherlock’s face tingled at the very idea of a foursome with John and a married Mexican couple. “Sorry love, I’m afraid Dr. Watson and I are in the midst of a very time consuming matter of business. I seriously doubt we’ll be getting any… leisure time anytime soon.”

Maya pouted somewhat. She pulled the casino’s business card and a pen out of her jacket, jotted down her cell number and a nearby address, and then slipped the paper into the breast pocket on John’s robe. “If you change your mind,” she cooed, clinging to John’s arm and beginning to stroke it from underneath its fuzzy sleeve.

"Also John has gonorrhea!" Sherlock blurted out.

“Sherlock!”

-x-

That evening the Baker Street boys were hardly any further along in solving their case when they decided to take a dinner break. The most popular restaurant in the casino appeared to be some sort of high-end bar with seating that, not unlike Mr. Linderman’s office, overlooked a very happening area of the casino. Simply mentioning Archie Linderman’s name to one of the waiters was enough to get the two of them seated in a private booth. Although Sherlock didn’t care much either way, he knew that the special treatment amused John and as such had made a point to abuse it in their favor as much as possible.

“And you’re absolutely sure you don’t want anything?” John asked, skimming through his menu. “Everything here sounds absolutely brilliant!”

Sherlock shrugged and took a sip of water. “Linderman is hiding something,” he finally said. “I’m itching to find out what.” He squinted down into his glass as if searching for answers inside of it.

The waiter came back with a basket of bread and butter, which John eagerly helped himself to. “What, y’mean like ten plus maimed dead bodies?” the doctor said with his mouth full.

“Well, yes, but besides those.” Sherlock strummed at the side of his cup for a moment before changing the subject. “Sorry, did you want to check out the slot machines or a card game or something while we’re up here?”

"Yes and no… It’s been ages since I’ve done anything like that, and I don’t want it to become a problem or anything. But then again it also might be fun just for a little while."

"You know I came here for your sake and not just the case," Sherlock reminded him. "Whatever you decide to do, I won’t stop you."

John frowned. “What, just like you didn’t stop me with that flight attendant? Or Maya?”

"Those were different. I didn’t want you to get into something you’d regret later because of… what is it called? ‘Rebound’?"

John rolled his eyes, but before he had the chance to protest, loud music began blasting over an intercom, followed by an introductory announcement for the ‘Birdy Babes’. Apparently these were a group of six exceptionally tall and stick-thin women who were wearing nothing but sparkling bikinis made of multicolored feathers with little sequins and rhinestones that jingled when they walked. The surrounding customers howled and cheered as the scantily-clad women entered the stage and began their dance routine.

John nudged Sherlock with his elbow. “Well, would you look at that.”

"I am looking. And quite frankly, I’d rather not.” Sherlock ducked his head to sip at his water again, and John’s face fell.

"Y’know, now that I think about it, maybe you’re the one who needs to lighten up a bit,” John said. “These women throwing themselves at guys, the flashing lights and loud music, it’s all just good fun. What harm could really come of it?”

Sherlock shot John a scathing look. “Oh, I don’t know… It’s just that perhaps it could get you strapped to a hotel bed naked and bleeding to death with your penis chopped off.”

"Well aren’t you just a ray of sunshine," John said with a tense smile.

Sherlock and John had nearly finished their meal—Sherlock kept stealing bits off of John’s plate, as usual—when the waiter came by with a check and Sherlock promised him that Mr. Linderman would cover it. The Birdy Babes then asked for volunteers from the audience for their final number and multiple hands shot up, John’s included. Sherlock made a face at this and pulled his friend’s arm back down.

For better or for worse, depending on who you ask, a fair-skinned Birdy Babe with very dark eyebrows stopped in front of their table just in time to see this exchange. With a half-smile she offered her hand, and John took it, allowing himself to be walked to center stage (but not before sticking his tongue out at Sherlock over his shoulder). Arms crossed, Sherlock leaned back in his seat with a grunt. Maybe he was being a bit… overprotective? But after weeks of struggling to move on with his life after Lilith, John’s sudden lack of inhibitions was… disturbing. And very upsetting, on Sherlock’s part.


	4. Chapter 4

When John took too long to say goodbye to the Birdy Babes after their performance and rejoin Sherlock, the detective grew even more aggravated and marched off, determined not to be forgotten. He found John in the midst of hitting it off with the dancer who had called him up to the stage. Despite the annoyance boiling inside him, Sherlock put on a relaxed, easy-going smile.

"Oh, there you are, sweetie!" Sherlock called out and stepped in between the two. "I wondered where you’d run off to." And then, to the barely-dressed possibly-a-stripper: "Boys, eh? Sometimes I swear I ought to get a leash for this one!" Sherlock let out an obnoxious stream of fake laughter and put an arm around John’s shoulders with a wink.

"Sherlock, just what do you think you’re doing?” John whispered angrily.

"What? Am I not allowed to meet any of your new friends?" He turned back to the girl with a grin. "I do apologize for my sugarbuns here, he has a tendency to get embarrassed about all this in front of strangers." Sherlock patted John’s arse for effect, which nearly sent the other man jumping a foot into the air. Horrified, John smacked Sherlock’s hand away, and considered slapping his face as well.

"Oh, no, you have no reason to be embarrassed!" the dancer promised. "I think it’s adorable. The world needs more people like you." She removed her feather headdress and shook out her black, shoulder-length mess of curls. "Anyway, I ought to be heading back to my dressing room. I only have so much down time between performances. It was a pleasure meeting you two, and good luck!"

"Wait!" John called after the woman as she darted away and caught up with her dance team. "I promise you I’m not gay!”

Sherlock pressed a hand against his mouth to keep from laughing, but John’s look of disapproval quickly dampened the urge. John jabbed his finger into Sherlock’s chest and began lecturing him. “Listen here, Cockblock Holmes, you’ve done nothing in the past couple days but stomp on every opportunity that’s arisen for me to get laid!”

Sherlock looked away defiantly. “She wouldn’t have liked it.”

John narrowed his eyes. “Isn’t this what you wanted? To make me happy again? I’m trying to move on, Sherlock, I really am—but now you won’t even let me do that!”

He knew he had no right to get upset. John's love life wasn't any business of his, but it was still painful to watch. Sherlock was suppressing tears as best he could when he next spoke, his voice raised so that everyone in the immediate vicinity could now hear.

"Fine!" he snapped. "Have sex with everyone in this damned casino, for all I care! If a good shag is really all you’re after, then by all means, don’t let me get in your way!" Sherlock threw his arms out to the side defensively. Several heads turned away, as if hoping to leave the argument a bit of privacy, but most continued to look on with a curiosity that sickened Sherlock.

"Don’t be like that," John pleaded, taking a step closer. "What about the case, anyway? Don’t you still need me?"

"As if that ever mattered to you," Sherlock muttered half-heartedly. He turned his back on John and made for the exit. "I’ll text if something turns up," he said just before turning the corner.

John cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Don’t bother!” He sort of grunted to himself and took a seat at the bar, where a bleach-blonde bartender with smokey eye shadow was busy polishing a glass.

"Boy troubles?" the woman asked, hardly lifting her eyes. She sounded Russian, but her accent was only slightly noticeable.

"You don’t know the half of it," John sighed. "Just a beer for me, thanks."

In no time at all the bartender had slid a mug in John’s direction with a slight grin across her glossy lips. “On ze house, but don’t tell my boss, okay?”

John smiled in gratitude. “You’re too kind—” His eyes shifted down at the girl’s name tag. “—Jessica. Beautiful name.”

"Stop it. It is a common name." Jessica pulled a stool out from under her side of the bar and sat down, leaning over the table so that her face was only inches away from John’s.

John looked flustered by her approach. “I-I-I’m John, by the way. Just… just in case you were, y’know, wondering.”

"Zen it is an honor to make your acquaintance, John. Now, tell me about zis… friend of yours, ze dashing fellow who just left. You two are… staying in ze same room, yes? You came together?"

"As if it weren’t enough already living with the guy," John muttered, taking a sip of his beer. "I mean, he’s brilliant, don’t get me wrong, and I know he brought me here because he thought it would cheer me up, but… sometimes it just seems like he’s always there, y’know?”

"And you zink hooking up with someone else is going to fix things?" Jessica questioned.

"It certainly would make me feel a lot better."

The bartender bit at her lower lip for a moment. “So, let me get zis straight… You vant to be unfaithful and can’t understand why your friend has such a problem vith that?” She, of course, assumed that the two of them were in a relationship and John wanted to sleep around with someone of the opposite gender for a change. Alas, John had yet to pick up on this misinterpretation.

"I wouldn’t say ‘unfaithful’," he corrected. "After everything we’ve been through…"

"Your friend, will he be heading back to your hotel room?"

"Likely too busy with his work out here," John shook his head. "Too busy to give a shit about my interests, anyway."

Jessica smiled sympathetically and took his hand in hers. “I get it. Tell you vhat, why don’t you take me vith you tonight. I know I do not have much to offer, but I vant to help. I don’t like seeing you unhappy.”

-x-

Meanwhile, John had been spot-on in assuming that Sherlock would be busy looking into the case further. Still worked up from their fight, the consulting detective had decided to relieve a bit of tension by breaking into Mr. Linderman’s office and vindictively hiding the man’s stapler and favorite pen while he was out. Sherlock also snooped around Linderman’s desktop and cabinet drawers for anything suspicious, but found nothing little besides paperwork and a bottle of gin.

That was when he discovered a cellphone that had been knocked under the desk and abandoned. Curious, Sherlock flipped the old mobile open—surprisingly, it didn’t have a lock. He began looking through its received text messages. There were six or seven in a row from a “Jessica Linderman,” each dated within the past month. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this; it was more than obvious that Linderman was not married. A sister, perhaps? He selected the oldest message from her:

Just how long did you think you could hide this from me, scumbag?

"Now we’re getting somewhere," Sherlock said to himself and scrolled through the next couple texts.

Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Natalie confessed to everything. Now it’s your turn.

I want a divorce. We’ll talk in person.

So there was an ex-wife. After having read all of the messages, the last being nothing but a cryptic ‘they’ll all pay for your sins’, Sherlock concluded that Linderman’s unmentioned ex was likely behind the killings. Whether she was in the field herself or watching her work from afar he had yet to determine.

Jessica, Jessica… Hadn’t he seen that somewhere recently? Sherlock sat himself down in Linderman’s spinning chair and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to recall this visual. After a few minutes of meditation and wandering backwards through his Mind Palace, the exact moment he was looking for jumped out at him with flashing lights—there was a bartender downstairs with Jessica on her nametag. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. Perhaps it was just a coincidence, but speaking with the woman for a moment might clear a few other things up. Namely, who was this Jessica Linderman and where might he find her now.

-x-

The bar had already closed by the time Sherlock returned to it, a little note card having been placed upon its counter that read ‘Try Again Later’. He glanced around, spotted an older gentleman that he recognized from back when he and John were going at it, and tapped the man on the shoulder.

“Uhm, excuse me, Sir, but do happen to know whatever happened to the bartender?”

“Well can’t’cha read?” the man grunted. “Sign says it’s gone and closed up for the evening! But if’n’ya really want somethin’ to drink, I can tell you right now that there are plenty more 24-hour bars located throughout!”

Sherlock made a face. “I do not want a drink, I wish to know where the bartender was headed. I need to speak with her.”

The man chuckled, taking a swig from his own mug. “Missed your chance there too, buddy. Yer boyfriend just ran off with her. I reckon they’re headed back to his room, judging by the googly eyes they were givin’ each other.” He laughed again and wiped at his wiry beard with a napkin.

Without thanking him, Sherlock made a dash for the elevator. On the off chance that this was Jessica Linderman, there was no chance in hell that he’d stand by and do nothing. Lilith had already hurt John, but he still had time to stop this Jessica from doing the same. Or much, much worse, given what they’d both stumbled upon at the crime scene.


	5. Chapter 5

Back in the privacy of John’s hotel room, Jessica went halfway onto her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his lips. “And you’re absolutely sure your partner wouldn’t mind?” she whispered.

“I’m absolutely sure that it’s none of his business.”

“Good,” Jessica smiled, pulling back. “In zat case, I will quickly change into something more comfortable, and when I return, I expect you to be changed into… well, nothing.” She kissed him again before disappearing into the hotel bathroom.

John didn’t need to be told twice. In a matter of seconds, he had finished stripping and nervously sat down on the bed to wait. When the bartender did return moments later, it wasn’t in some sort of lingerie as he expected—in fact, she hadn’t altered her outfit at all. The only addition was of a sleek black handgun that she held with an almost professional grip.

“Alright, shut up and get on the… bed…” Jessica lowered her weapon slightly with a raised eyebrow at John, who was, as stated before, already seated on top of the bed. “Well, someone was a bit eager to begin, weren’t ve?”

John eyed the gun and swallowed loudly. “Oh wow, haha. Gunplay, is it? You don’t seem like the type. Could’ve mentioned something…”

“Quiet.” Jessica stepped forward, pressing the gun against John’s temple. “Lie down vith your arms over your head and don’t move.”

John’s pupils widened perceptibly. His jaw opened and closed with no sound coming out for a few seconds before he coughed in surprise. “Ah, yes. Okay. Yes. Very good.” He did as he was told with short, jerky movements. Jessica threw down the shoulder bag she’d fetched out of her car and nudged it open with her foot. John could see there were no clothes inside as she’d claimed—but there sure was a lot of rope. “Y’know, I’m not usually, ah, into this sort of thing, but a guy can definitely be persuaded.”

“Shut the fuck up you mouthy little shithead.”

“Ooh. Dirty talk.”

One-handed, Jessica grabbed a length of rope and began to tie John’s wrists and ankles to the bedposts. “O-Oh. Hey, not so snug, hah…” Jessica pulled the knot tighter with a sneer and John squirmed. “Y’know, I think we should establish a safeword. That’s standard procedure, right?”

Jessica rolled her eyes so hard they almost fell out of her head. “Sure. Ze safeword is ‘I’m a cheating dickhole.’”

“…That’s more like a safephrase, but okay.” Jessica didn’t respond in favor of finishing the last knot around John’s ankle. She pulled the rope hard just to see John wince. “I’m sensing some hostility from you,” the doctor said. “Did I do something wrong?”

“You made your mistake vhen I first heard you speak,” Jessica snapped. She reached into her jacket and pulled out a rather large pocket knife.

“Um.” John blinked at her rapidly. “I don’t like where this is going.” The bartender began to climb onto the bed, knife raised, which sent John thrashing. “I’m a cheating dickhole! I’m a cheating dickhole!”

“Glad ve’re on the same page.” She pressed his half-hard penis against his stomach with the palm of her hand and examined it closely, as if trying to guess how long it would take her to cut through it. John went still out of fear. “Do you know vhy I killed those men, John?”

“Y-You… w-what?” John choked out. “Oh, God. Of course you’re the killer,” he groaned. “Of course you are! Oh, Sherlock is never going to let me hear the end of this one…”

“Sherlock? Is zat his name?” Jessica smiled at this. “So zat means you must be ze two buffoons Linderman hired to find me.” She climbed off the bed and pulled a bundle of cloth and a roll of duct tape out of her bag. John shifted uneasily. “Well, congratulations, detective—you figured me out first.”

-x-

Sherlock unlocked the hotel room just in time to see Jessica flip her knife open and lower it toward John’s crotch. The doctor was strapped down tight across the bed, barely able to move, and had duct tape over his mouth to keep him quiet, just as the previous victims had been found.

“Hey!” Sherlock shouted. Jessica flinched and spun around. They both dove for the gun lying on the bedside table at the same time, and miraculously, Sherlock wrestled it away from the serial killer and had it pointed at her forehead before she could even get off the bed. “John Watson and his penis are under my protection and you will stay the hell away from both of them!” he said. Although it was extremely difficult, Sherlock somehow managed to keep his eyes on Jessica and not freak out over the fact that John was tied up in the same room 100% completely naked just a few feet away totally within touching distance oh my god.

“Drop the gun or I’ll do it,” Jessica threatened, lifting the knife over her victim’s stomach. John went into a sort of panic at this and attempted to pull against his bonds, but they didn’t budge an inch.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, wrapping his finger around the trigger. “I’ll shoot you before you have the chance.”

Jessica hesitated for a moment to assess the situation. She then ripped the cover off of the unoccupied bed and flung it at Sherlock, temporarily distracting him while she made a dash for the door. It didn’t take any time at all for Sherlock to knock the blanket back to the floor, and he fired the gun at Jessica just as she slipped out of the room. He contemplated chasing after her but instead rushed to John’s side, ripping the tape away from his friend’s jaw.

John spat out a wad of cloth. “What are you doing? She’s getting away!”

“Well I couldn’t just leave you here like this!”

"Alright alright, whatever," John exhaled. "Just hurry up and cut these infernal things off!" Luckily Jessica had dropped her knife just before taking off, allowing Sherlock to make quick work of the knots—while also definitely not looking at anything at all except the rope and only the rope thank you very--had John always had a mole there? Upon being freed, the doctor leapt up at once and made for the door.

"John, where are you going?" Sherlock called after him, eyebrows furrowed. "What about your clothes?"

"The bitch who almost made me a unic is getting away! There isn’t time to get dressed!” And with that, the nude man ran into the hall and after Jessica, Sherlock bringing up (and attempting not to ogle) the rear for the first time in a while.

-x-

Determined not to lose sight of Jessica, John shoved his way past crowds of horrified guests in the casino’s main slots room. Unfortunately, it didn’t take him long to catch the attention of the hotel security. Just as he turned a corner four guards were upon him: the Hulk-like black man, a weasel-faced smaller one, and a pair of blonde twins that John hadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting. Without a word they grabbed hold of his flailing arms and legs, dragging John away from the escaping Jessica and towards the casino’s exit.

“No, you don’t understand!” John shouted. “That’s your killer, Jessica - she’s the one you guys want! Stop her! Quick!”

Alas, he was ignored and quite literally thrown out of the casino’s glass doors. “And stay out, streaker!” one of the guards laughed just before disappearing inside.

Sherlock saw all this happen, but rather than run to John’s side, he picked up where he had left off in his pursuit of Jessica. It was to his advantage that she had slowed down to avoid suspicion. However, when she spotted Sherlock following her, Jessica took off down the hall again. She was fast, but his legs were longer, and soon enough he was able to tackle the woman to the ground just in front of the nearest fire escape.


	6. Chapter 6

“Jessica?” Linderman wrinkled his nose. “Actually I don’t know why I’m acting entirely surprised, given that you were the most obvious person to suspect. You always did have a thing for dramatics.”

“That’s vhat you get, running around with other women while ve were still married! All zose men I killed? Zey were pigs, just like you!”

“You might have wanted to mention that you still had your psychotic ex-wife working for you sometime earlier,” Sherlock sighed, half to himself.

Now in possession of Jessica’s gun, Linderman nodded for her to take a seat in his chair. She did so with less protest than Sherlock had expected. “Besides, I thought we already had this conversation,” Linderman went on. “Natalie and I were never serious. I made a mistake seeing her behind your back and I would have ended the whole thing if I’d known you were planning on leaving me.”

Jessica snorted. “Vell, now we’re even.”

“I hate to interrupt,” Sherlock chimed in, “but might I suggest we phone the police right about now? Doctor Watson is waiting outside and I’m sure that if he were allowed in he would stress the urgency of taking ex-Mrs. Linderman into custody as soon as possible.”

Linderman strummed his fingers along the top of his chair thoughtfully. “It is a curious situation. I suppose the morally correct thing to do would be to call the police, have them lock up my murderous ex-wife… However, that would also require me to explain to the officials how I ordered the hush on twelve fresh corpses, and I’m sure we all know that that sort of announcement would completely jeopardize my reputation.”

Sherlock frowned. “You aren’t seriously suggesting I stand by and do nothing while you kill her to cover up this whole mess? You’d be just as much a criminal as she!”

“Good Lord, how dare you suggest I harm my own ex-wife!” Linderman scoffed, straightening his back defensively. “Jess may have done some naughty things, but the truth of the matter is that I still love her, which is why I’m willing to offer a proposition.”

Jessica tilted her head up at Linderman. “I’m listening.”

“If you take me back, Jessica, I’m willing to forget that this whole thing ever happened. You’re welcome to stay under my employment or do anything else that you like. Just give me your word that the killings will stop and no one will ever have to know.”

“Oh, Archie!” Jessica squealed. She jumped up and threw her arms around Linderman’s waist. “I knew you still cared for me!”

Sherlock could hardly believe the bullshittery he was hearing. “Oh, but this is all so illegal,” he sang, trying to remain calm and collected. Linderman cocked the gun and aimed it at Sherlock with a crooked grin.

“Wonderful. So that just leaves the issue of what to do with him.”

-x-

With Jessica’s firearm pressed into his back, the detective was walked into the casino’s kitchen, which Linderman had called to have cleared out just moments before. Sherlock turned around at the end of the room, the weapon now aimed at his chest. “You’re making a serious mistake,” he said slowly, eyes locked on Linderman. “If you walk away, let me call the police, I can only guarantee a jail cell for one of you. But if you shoot me now, it’s all over.”

Linderman smiled. “Who said anything about shooting you? Think of the mess we’d have to clean up afterwards.”

Jessica’s eyes lit up. “Can I chop off his penis?” she offered ecstatically. “I mean, it’s not like he’ll be needing it much anymore!”

"Jess, we talked about this! You can’t keep doing stuff like that!"

"Sorry," Jessica grumbled. "It was really starting to get enjoyable once I got the hang of it…"

Linderman looked back at Sherlock with a mischievous grin. “You’re a detective, Holmes. I’m sure you’ve encountered all sorts of murder scenarios. Now tell me, how would you dispose of a private eye who’s seen too much?”

Sherlock swallowed. “Well. If you’re hoping to avoid bloodshed, there’s always strangulation?” If he could get Linderman to put down the gun long enough for a running start, his chances of getting away would greatly increase.

Linderman’s eyes shifted to the walk-in freezer just behind Sherlock. “Or perhaps something a little more… unconventional?”

Sherlock followed his gaze and frowned. “John was right. You are insane, if you think I’ll willingly step into that.”

Linderman pressed the weapon against Sherlock’s sternum while Jessica pried open the freezer door. Given the circumstances, the 9 to 11 hours it would take for Sherlock to freeze to death in there seemed a tad more hopeful than the chances of survival if Linderman did pull that trigger. “Go to hell,” Sherlock hissed, taking a step into the giant icebox.

“Hey, vait,” Jessica said. “He sure has on a lot of layers. Perhaps ve should speed ze process up a bit, no?”

“Hmm, you’re right.” Linderman nudged Sherlock in the shoulder with the gun. “Take off that coat.”

Sherlock glared hard enough to make the other man burst into flames. “This is absurd.”

“Did I fucking stutter?” Linderman snapped. “Take. It. Off. I don’t want to have to wait around any longer than necessary for you to die, peaches.”

After an intense stare-down that lasted a good fifteen seconds, Sherlock reluctantly let his heavy coat slide off his shoulders. Jessica snatched it up, along with his scarf and suit jacket, and dumped the bundle into a nearby cabinet. “Ve’ll have to burn those along vith ze body,” she said. “Now make him take off his shoes too.” Sherlock obeyed with a heavy sigh, already shivering at the cold floor against his socks. “And his shirt,” Jessica added excitedly.

“Excuse me?”

Linderman nudged Sherlock in the ribs with the gun. “You heard her. You’re lucky we’re letting you keep your trousers on.” Jessica looked surprised and also immensely disappointed at this. Perhaps she was hoping Sherlock would put up enough of a fight to warrant cutting his penis off.

Sherlock had to take three deep breaths and count backwards from twenty before he felt stable enough to respond without cursing wildly. “Mr. Linderman, I would like to file a complaint about your casino.”

Linderman smiled. “The complaint?”

“You are a massive diseased rectum and I hate you.”

“Feel better?”

“No.”

“Good.” Linderman tapped Sherlock’s exposed collarbone with the gun. “Now your shirt, if you will.”

They did eventually get Sherlock’s shirt off, but only after he made Jessica stand in a corner and Linderman promise to avert his eyes. Once all of his clothes except his trousers and socks were stuffed into the cabinet, Sherlock was unceremoniously shoved deeper inside the freezer, where he nearly tripped over a box of frozen fishsticks.

“I do feel a bit bad about this,” Linderman said, looking completely guilt-free. “But hey, if the cold starts getting to you, at least you still have your belt to choke yourself with. Goodbye, Mr. Holmes!” The heavy door slammed shut, and Sherlock heard a padlock click from the other side.

"You won’t get away with this, you sick bastards!" Sherlock screamed, his voice muffled inside his metal prison. “I have people who care about me, despite popular belief! They’ll be wondering where I am soon enough!” He slammed his fists against the icy wall repeatedly, but Linderman and Jessica had long since stopped listening.

After about ten minutes of putting all of his energy into throwing himself against the locked door, Sherlock was already feeling the chill pinch at his limbs. His mind whirling with hate and terror, the detective finally sank into a huddled ball in the corner on top of a squashed cardboard box, hugging his knees and rocking slightly. He could see his breath forming a cloud just inches from his face. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, silently praying for the time he’d spend here not to feel so long.


	7. Chapter 7

On the upside of things, John was able to eventually stumble into the nearest police station. He’d found a black tarp to cover himself with in a trash bin outside the casino, but even then most people assumed he was insane and homeless and refused to allow him to borrow their phones to call for help. Once inside the station, the officers there almost didn’t believe his story, except that it seemed too ridiculous to have been made up. Plus, John knew Archie Linderman by name, which was something few could boast about.

"And you’re absolutely sure about all of this?" a young man in uniform pressed. "You don’t exactly have any proof on you. Or much of anything in general."

"I already told you, that’s because they threw me out without any clothing on! Please, you have to believe me—if Linderman hasn’t called by now then he probably was never planning to. That would mean him confessing to covering up the murders."

The policemen exchanged doubtful glances. “Alright,” one of them said, standing up. “I suppose we don’t have much of a choice but to see if the story is true ourselves. But first, someone find this poor man a pair of trousers.”

-x-

"Police! Open up!"

When Linderman took too long to step out of his office the police squad kicked open the door, shouting something along the lines of Mr. and Mrs. Linderman’s arrest for murder and conspiracy. The couple’s joint attempt to fight back hardly helped to prove their innocence, and in a matter of seconds the two criminals were handcuffed and pinned against the wall with unhappy countenances.

John marched up to Linderman and demanded, “Where is he?” As promised, the doctor was now wearing a too-big pair of jeans—but nothing else.

Jessica chuckled to herself. “Look as much as you vant; you’ll never find him.”

The urge to punch the woman square in the face was a strong one, but in light of his current company, John reined himself in with a deep breath. “Is he dead?” he choked.

"Wouldn’t you vant to know.”

Sherlock was alive, then. Jessica would have been all too pleased to break the news of the detective’s death to him. With a huff, John stormed out of the glass office, leaving the police force to conduct their own business while he began to search for Sherlock.

After twenty minutes or so of frantically scouring the entire first floor, he ran into Maya, Ernesto’s wife, and she mentioned having heard something about the kitchens being cleared out a while earlier.

Still in a panic, John pushed past a couple of rather confused employees and into the abandoned kitchen. He ripped open every cupboard big enough for an adult male to be stashed in, and when he found nothing, began working on the drawers and smaller hiding places, desperately looking for a clue. He had searched almost the entire kitchen and was beginning to lose hope when he yanked open a cabinet door and a pair of shoes tumbled out. Odd place to put some shoes, he thought, before he realized he recognized those shoes. And the bundle of clothes shoved into the back, too.

John had to take a minute to breathe before he did something unhelpful like freak out. He knew if Sherlock were there, he’d be able to take one glance at the abandoned clothes and tell exactly where their owner was, but John wasn’t like that. All he saw was proof that his friend was stripped of anything valuable and taken somewhere to be shot under a duvet and thrown into a river.

The doctor resignedly searched the rest of the kitchen, trying not to think about all sorts of horrible things that could’ve happened. It wasn’t until John was slumped on a stool with Sherlock’s stripey blue scarf in his hands, just beginning to get teary-eyed, when he noticed the padlock on the freezer. It took a moment for what he saw to sink it, but then John jumped up fast enough to send the stool crashing into the ground.

Without even checking first to see if Sherlock was actually inside, John pulled a meat cleaver from where it had been hanging on the wall and brought it down upon the door’s hook with as much force as he could manage. It took four well-placed swings before the metal snapped off. John pulled the freezer door open, and Sherlock—who must have been pressing on the door from the other side—tumbled out of it, crash landing on top of him.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, eyes wide with both relief and concern. "Oh, God, Sherlock, what have they done to you?" He placed his sweaty palms over the cheeks of his popsicle of a friend. Sherlock’s skin was paler than usual, almost paper white, and his lips were beginning to turn purple. John hated to think just how long he’d been trapped in there, but it had to have been well over an hour and a half.

Shaking uncontrollably, Sherlock took John’s hands in his own and struggled to get his voice working again. “Y-You… c-came back, e-even af-f-fter… after I s-said th-those h-horrible things—”

“…Oh, Sherlock, no.”

“I-I was-s-s-starting to th-think you wouldn’t—”

John shushed him and threw his arms around the shivering Sherlock. “Of course I did. And I always will. Whatever happens, I’ll never leave you behind, alright?”

Sherlock sort of sniffled and struggled to his feet with John’s help. He was wobbly and couldn’t really feel his hands, so John got his coat out of the cabinet and wrapped it around them both, keeping one arm circling the detective’s waist. “I th-think I want t-to ch-check out now,” Sherlock managed.

-x-

After everything that they’d just been through, Sherlock and John had little to say to one another as they prepared to board their flight. They sat in silence on the aircraft for some time until Sherlock finally turned to his flatmate, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Talk about one hell of a vacation…"

John merely shrugged.

"I mean, you did get booted out of an establishment for streaking," he teased.

"And you spent a 2-hour timeout in a giant icebox.”

"That I did," Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Sooo. Would this be a good story to bring up at Christmas time, or…?"

John whipped his head around to shoot Sherlock an evil look. “Not if you’re content with the current location of you genitalia,” he threatened.

Sherlock laughed, but John just glared harder. Giggle trailing off awkwardly, Sherlock crossed his legs and turned a full ninety degrees to gaze out his passenger window.


End file.
